


Goodbye, Lady Argent

by EmilysRose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cannon, post 3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:59:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10960179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilysRose/pseuds/EmilysRose
Summary: Basically I watched 3b and felt the need to write about what I think Stiles could have been feeling.





	Goodbye, Lady Argent

Stiles had seen Allison before she'd shown up at school. He hadn't said anything when she'd shown up in class, asking for a pen, mostly because it had seemed unimportant. She was just the pretty girl. One of many that graced the halls of Beacon Hills. He assumed she'd be in Lydia's crowd within the week--and it was only verified when she didn't notice or acknowledge him next to Scott.

He'd seen her and her family unpacking the moving truck into their new house on Wickier. Her scary ass mother--who was dead, so that was, well, not a very nice thing to say, was it, her being dead and all--and her intimidating father were helping her with a huge box. Stiles had been passing them on his way home and Allison had been tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She'd smiled and waved as he drove by. He hadn't waved back, just turned up the radio louder, desiring that noise as he drove aimlessly through the neighborhood with the big houses. It was his habit. He figured he'd had to pay his own gas since getting his Jeep, he might as well enjoy it. Sometimes he drove through Beacon Hills, sometimes taking the trail in the Preserve, other times doing loops in neighborhoods. For that perfect song he wanted to listen to, for the wind that would rush through the canvases tears, because no one was home anyway.

He had remembered seeing her. All dimples and sweetness. She'd looked young. No loaded down by... well, the Werewolf Situation. His mother had looked that way, too, in pictures and in memories. Claudia Stilinski had been a bright, sweet lady before the disease had taken over and she'd died. He liked to gloss over the bad period in his mind. It seemed unimportant to the memory of Claudia Stilinski. Her death was only a small part of her. He liked to pretend, sometimes, that she'd died with a smile on her face, her hand in his, telling him it was going to be okay. That when he was done with his life, she'd meet him up in heaven on some such shit. Mostly because he doesn't like thinking of how she'd actually died.

Like Allison, she'd died with blood on her face. A hero to her own cause. Allison he couldn't do it with though. In his head, she was just dead. And for the life of him, he couldn't remember her as the dimpled young girl he'd seen unloading boxes into her house. The blood was always there leaking out of her mouth, the skin always pale and ashy, eyes wide with some unreadable fear. He saw a hunter at the end of her road. A girl who had grown from the crying, whining, scared girl demanding answers from her father and aunt. A girl who had lost family. Who had come out hardened. Stiles sometimes hated to admit it, but he had not liked pre-Werewolf Situation Allison.

The way she'd reacted that night when they were all trapped at the school with Peter, it hadn't left a good impression. She'd seemed unworthy in his eyes, to be the love of Scott's life. Especially next to Lydia, with her Molotov cocktails. But who was Stiles to say what his best friend could or shouldn't have? He was not Derek. He would not admit out loud the pessimistic attitudes he had towards love. But then the Werewolf Situation happened.

She learned the truth. Her family died and Stiles felt... well, 'a connection' was wrong. What he felt was understanding. Kinship. He'd lost his mother, and while Allison's Aunt was a crazy bitch, she was Allison's family. And Stile's loosing his mother didn't amount to the same thing as Allison loosing her Aunt, the grief was still there in the both of them, and he understood. That didn't mean he particularly liked her, but he would deal with her, because she was the Catwoman to Scott's Batman, and Stiles was just barely Boy Wonder.

There was an evolution to their friendship. He got to know her beyond Scott's conceits. He conspired with her. Kidnapped Jackson with her. They shared glances when Scott did something particularly stupid and adorable together. Bonding definitely happened. Picking up the pieces she left behind when she went Dark Side had been... less annoying than the first breakup had been. It was also easier in so many ways.

That sick understanding grew. Now they'd both lost mothers. Once she got her shit together, Stiles even found he admired her. Admired her more than he could admire any of the others, even Scott. Because really, she got her shit together. Other than Lydia--who could be matched by no one--she was the best of them. The Strongest. She became everything that Stiles secretly wished he could be. While still managing to keep her humanity after the blatantly psychopathic manipulations of Gerard Argent, she was strong. Depended on, a reliable source of information and talent and she  _mattered_ in a way that Stiles just couldn't match. Because he was weak and small and prone to useless flailing. Well, he used to be. Now that was all gone. Carved out by cold smiles and the game of go. 

After Allison got all badass, he couldn't say that he was weak because he was human. She took that excuse away from him by being... Allison Argent. Huntress.

Now she is dead.

\--

Stiles stumbles as Lydia moves beneath him. After slapping him away, her acrylic nails nearly scratching his cheek up in the vicious way she pounded at his face, she'd dragged him up onto his feet with insults and desperate pleas. At first, he'd been unable to understand why she was in such a hurry, and he'd tried to concentrate on her as she put an arm around his waist and let him lean on her. He focused now on the way she smelled--which was good, despite the fact that she'd been doing in the dank, musty basement with him from a while now, and he did  _not_ smell good--and the way the heat of her body felt against his cold skin. He figured-- _why not indulge? I'll never have this opportunity again_. He tried to keep an endless amount of optimism about the possibility of her loving him back, but he knew it would never happen.

Girls like Lydia don't love boys like Stiles. Fact of nature. After what he'd just done to her as Nogitsune? Well, he'd be surprised if she--if any of them--could be in the same room with him again.

They stumbled out into the open air. Stiles can recognize that something is very, very wrong. He can hear Scott crying. It didn't happen often, not since his dad had walked out on him and his mom--but he recognized the sound well enough. Half sob, half choke. 

The smell of blood hit him. At looking around, he sees Isaac on the ground, bloodied but alive. Before he can look around more, Lydia disentangles from him and rushes forward on her ridiculous heals, leaving Stiles to himself.

He stands, swaying. He feels awkward in his body, like it isn't his anymore. The Nogitsune had left it hallow and empty, limbs too big, betraying him in their heaviness.

He watched as Lydia runs up to Scott and the body that was Allison lying in his arms, her face ashy and pale and still, with blood on it. Stiles doesn't need to be told what happened. Even Boy Wonder could figure it out for himself.

Allison Argent is dead. And it's Stile's fault. He hadn't done it himself, hadn't pushed the blade and twisted it like he'd done to Scott, but Stiles is still guilty of the crime. Of both crimes--of every crime. Because the blame had to be placed somewhere, so why not the Nogitsune's borrowed shoulders?

\--

Police are called. Team Werewolf Good Guys are investigated. Questioned. Argent supplied the necassary things to say, and with Stile's Dad leading the investigation, they get off after minimal questioning and the promise of a follow up.

Allison's body is taken to the morgue, where it will stay until the investigation is deemed solved--or, at least, until the Sheriff figured there was enough time to call the entire thing a Cold Case and give the body to Argent to be given funeral rights. Argent himself goes home. Isaac, both surprisingly and unsurprisingly goes with him.

Scott goes home, where Mrs. McCall was. Maybe Mr. McCall too, who knows.

Lydia goes home. Stiles has no idea what kind of relief she'd find there, in a house inhabited by an annoying rat-dog and a mother who didn't understand or pretend too. The only one going home to mourn alone, but maybe that was the best kind of relief for a girl like Lydia Martin.

Stiles finds his own comfort. He rams into his dad the first chance he gets, pressing his chest to the stronger one, wrapping his arms around his dad and feeling his solidness. Felt the way they both slapped each other in the backs hard, burying their faces into one another shoulders, as if to prove that yes, they are there. Yes, this is them. The two Stilinskis. But the hug had to end, and after the comfort is done, it becomes awkward. More than the death of the teenager girl now being dragged to the morgue, or all the betrayed friends, or the dead deputies and re-destroyed Sheriff's department--its five simple words that hang between them, causing a kind of block. It had been hanging there for a while, even when the nightmares the Nogitsune had supplied were fresh and new, and Stilles was terrified of the repercussions of his own death.

 _Mom would have believed me_.

He finds his room to be int he chaotic state that he half remembered doing himself. The scissors are still int he middle of his bed, having cut up his sheets and the pillow top and the mattress below. The red strings connect them to... shit. Just random shit that made no sense to him anymore.

His father stays downstairs, probably nursing a whisky, so its no trouble at all for Stiles to leave the mess of his room. He doesn't try to hide his escape by going through his window and easing his Jeep off the driveway by pushing down the parking break and letting the car roll itself onto the street, like he'd done those years before he'd gotten his licence. No. Instead he walks down the stairs, past his dad--who isn't drinking, but staring into space, crying silently--and out of the front door. His Jeep rumbles and pings into live as he shoves his foot into the clutch.

He drive, for hours he drives around town, having to refill his tank along the way, and lets the radio blast into his ears. He familiarized himself with a town he'd lived in his whole life. Past Allison's old house, where he can't remember the smiling girl he'd seen before everything had gone to shit, before she died a hero.

\--

Once he gets back home, he gets to work on his room. He hadn't slept the entire night, but not-sleeping has become a kind of habit for him now. It's easy to ignore the way the tiredness drags at his too heavy muscles and gets to work. He showers and changes and he even keeps his door open--an olive branch towards his dad, so that they can get past those awkward five words someday--as he cuts the red string and takes out the scissors from his bed and fills trash bag after trash bag. He feels, oddly, as he stares at it old, changed room, that he wants to disappear.

Around seven his dad, freshly showered, stops by. He leans into the doorjam and asks Stiles what he's doing.

"Just... cleaning up." He replies. His dad stands there awkwardly for a moment or two, before nodding a and heading downstairs. His wedding ring is gone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously love it when people do constructive criticism and talk to me about their opinions on the show and the work.


End file.
